A House Full of Holmes
by VirgoNash
Summary: When Sherlock's younger sister moves in with them, hilarity and drama ensues as Rebecca's antics and experiments spin out of control, bringing in more new friends and enemies , and unraveling Sherlock's past. Johnlock later. Mentions of drug use and some language. Read and review, I'm always looking to improve. New characters- Rebecca Holmes and Emma Jones.
1. A Holmes Unheard Of

A House Full of Holmes

Prologue- A Holmes Unheard Of

The first thing John saw was the window, then the figure on the roof.

Until that moment, he'd had no idea that the large windows Sherlock always situated himself in, set right out front of 221B, even opened. But there it was, the window to his right, opened as far as it would turn, letting the late September air slip in and out silently.

Then there was the roof.

The coat was what set him off, a long, thick black number, probably with plenty of pockets. The owner was sitting casually on the edge of the roof, one foot dangling off and the other pulled to their chest. A blue scarf had found its way out from behind the lapels of the coat, flapping defiantly over the owners shoulder. Wild, curly black hair just brushed over the eyes of this mysterious figure, bouncing joyously in the breeze.

The feeling in John's gut, however, was far less than joyous.

"Sherlock," he breathed, the word slipping out involuntarily. Fear clutched his chest in an icy hand, and he was running before he could think, before he could process what was happening. Sherlock, on the roof. It was too familiar, too much like before. Before he'd found the man sitting on his couch, complaining about being bored.

"That's… wow. Right, fine. I have completely lost it," he'd conceded, putting away the groceries, "Yeah, okay, great. I am delusional. Lovely."

"Don't be silly, John," Sherlock had sighed, rolling onto his back, "Who do you think killed all of Moriary's men if I was dead?"

Sherlock had, of course, explained, in time. He'd had to die to save John, then stay hidden until the last of Moriarty's web was torn away. It wasn't until Molly had shown up, confirmed to him that Sherlock was really, really there that he had started to believe.

He'd also started screaming.

He was screaming now, taking the stairs into the flat two at a time, leaving his Tesco bags at the base of the steps. No. Sherlock wasn't going to jump. It was impossible, outlandish. What did he have to jump for? His name was in the process of being cleared, he was back from the dead, back on his cases in 221B with John and the cat he'd bought when he thought his friend was dead and-

Kicking the door to the flat open wasn't probably the best idea, but, somehow, Sherlock's air for dramatics had rubbed off on him in the years he'd known him, and he found himself rearing back for the blow. The resulting crack of doorknob-and-wall resounded down the stare well, probably scaring Mrs. Hudson half to death. Good. She had good reason to be afraid. Sherlock was on the roof, leaning over the edge, probably just ready to jump, and there was nothing John could do but scream and run and try to-

"John! What in God's name are you yelling about?"

John froze, his eyes wide. A tall thin frame stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a cookie sheet covered in what appeared to be John's socks in his hands. He wore an incredulous expression, his face pulled into his neck, indignant.

"What are you… but you're… where's your coat?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, setting the tray down on the coffee table as he walked to the window, not bothering to explain as he approached. John's hands itched as his flatmate leaned out of the window, peering at the roof above.

"I said you could borrow a shirt and a pair of trousers. You should know, to start, that my coat and scarf are inherently off limits," he called, then paused, and continued with gritted teeth, "As are John's pants."

John stared. If Sherlock wasn't on the roof, who was? Why was he borrowing Sherlock's clothes? Why was he here?

How did Sherlock know he was wearing John's pants?

Sherlock left the window, annoyance apparent on his face. Then, he turned to John, and his face deepened, annoyance turned to a solid mix of concern and fascination.

"You thought it was me," he stated, not a question, but an observation. John searched for words, for the questions he needed to ask, and found it impossible, nothing but relief filling his mind.

No one was jumping today.

"Who is that, then? On the roof?" he asked, leaning back against the door frame. Usually, Sherlock's antics were relatively easy to accept, if not understand, but this was… just weird.

Sherlock was about to answer when a figure dropped into the window frame, swinging into room with an air of casual boredom.

"In my defense, I did think they where yours," the figure conceded in a warm tone similar to Sherlock's, but higher, almost… feminine.

His flatmate's coat was flung over the figure's arm, revealing a black shirt that didn't quite fit them and a pair of trousers hanging just a little too low on their waist, a strip of red fabric appearing along the edge.

John blushed the same color, realizing that this was a _girl_, a young one, probably sixteen, _wearing his pants._ The red ones that he wore on dates, when he knew he was getting laid. The ones that no one ever saw but those women. The ones that it was impossible for anyone else to have seen unless they'd been snooping through his drawers.

Probably snooping through his drawers looking for cigarettes.

"John," Sherlock said curtly, "This is Rebecca. She's moving in with us."

"Ah, John," Rebecca sneered, "Sorry to scare you, just an experiment. Apparently you do still hold a fear for Sherlock's mental health. Fascinating."

Experiment. Sherlock's jaw was locked, and John realized he wasn't the only one who thought this was a bit too far over the line of a-bit-not-good, bordering on you-are-insane-leave-me-alone.

"Are you… I mean, you aren't…" John stuttered, putting the pieces together, "You do not have a minion. Oh, lord, no, there is not another Sherlock type in this house. Absolutely not."

From the self-satisfied smirk on Rebecca's face and the uncomfortable grimace on Sherlock's face, John knew he was wrong. Oh, God.

"No," he said, seeing what was going on here, "Absolutely not. She is not… This is not happening. We don't have a spare room and she stole my pants."

"Neither of us sleep often, we can take the bed in shifts. That's what we did when I stayed with Sherlock the first time. Or, better, yet, you two could just share a room," Rebecca said, busying herself with a notebook in her hand, "Honestly, you two all but sleep together."

"What are you… what do you think… who do you think you are?" he gasped, "And, by the way, still not gay!"

"Come off it, John, it's just us, you don't need to pretend," Rebecca scoffed, "By the way, you forgot the bread, no worry, I'll go back to the market and get it…"

John stared between the two of them, having no idea what was happening. First, she pretended to be a suicidal Sherlock, then she'd insisted she was moving in to their flat, insinuating that he and Sherlock were a couple, and now she was leaving without an explanation?

"Oh, and John," she said, leaning back into the flat from behind the door, waiting for John to turn back to her before she continued, "My name's Rebecca Holmes."


	2. Another Sherlock

Chapter 2- Another Sherlock

"Unbelievable. Un-_fucking_-believable."

John had been standing in the same spot for fifteen minutes, repeating himself over and over again. Sherlock had watched him for a moment before he returned to his experiments, testing the effects of different household products of the softness of fabric. He really must have been bored.

"So, who is she, then? Fan, teenage runaway, druggie, crazy?"

"Sister," Sherlock grunted, not turning away from his work. Maybe if he refrigerated the socks…

"Sister. Right," John continued, "Great. Just great. There's more of you? Wonderful."

"Honestly, John, I'm just as thrilled with this as you are," he conceded, "Rebecca is almost as annoying as Mycroft, though not as dull. She reminds me quite a bit of myself at her age."

"Oh, that just makes things even better," the man crowed sarcastically, storming into the kitchen, "Why does she have to stay here? Can't she stay with your parents?"

Sherlock, as was his custom, looked at the question from an objective point of view. All he had to do was tell John the truth and he wouldn't have to deal with it. Then why was it so hard to say? Interesting.

"My parents," he hissed, spitting the word as if it would burn him if he let it linger on his tongue, "Put her out when they found out she was using. Mycroft put her in a twelve step program and now that she's out she has nowhere to stay."

John was silent for a moment, and Sherlock was grateful. Seeing Rebecca had shaken him, especially with what she had just done to John. His pupils were still dilated with the adrenaline of fear. He'd have a nightmare tonight, the same nightmare he had had ever since Sherlock had jumped. He wasn't quite sure on the details, but he knew that whenever John was reminded of the hardship he'd been through, Sherlock would hear him whimpering in his room, the same way he used to whimper in his dreams of the war, and then cry out his name, fear bathing his voice. Every time, he would sit up in bed, and Sherlock would know he was crying silent tears.

Every time, he would sit outside of the smaller man's door, and wait for John's breath to become even and quiet, falling back in to a restless. He would sit and wait until he knew John was safe. It was stupid, sentimental, and entirely necessary.

Sherlock had already put John through so much pain- now he had to protect him.

Rebecca would have a comment about his protectiveness, but he entirely did not care. John was his friend, his only friend, and friends looked out for each other.

Friends kept people safe.

"What was she using?"

The question caught Sherlock off guard, and he turned to watch as the man stood in the front of the counter, having abandoned the sandwich he was making to stare ahead, hands gripping the counter.

"Cocaine, heroin, DMT," he listed, "Anything she could try. I was the same when I was her age, always experimenting with different chemicals, seeing how far I could push my body. The Holmes family is known for coming from a long line of addictive personalities. I'm sure you can deduce the rest."

John continued to stare ahead. Sherlock knew drug and alcohol abuse was a sore topic for his flatmate. Typical, seeing as his own sister still had sever drinking issues. Sherlock noted that the last sock, the one soaked in embalming fluid, was shrinking slowly, now about 7/9th of its original size. Funny, that was the same thing that had happened when John had accidentally mixed up the dish washer detergent and Sherlock's supply. He'd only been able to keep one of the shirts, the purple one, which just barely still fit.

"You're a druggie?"

"_Was_. And I prefer mind-altering chemical enthusiast, thank you very much."

John didn't seem to think his quip was funny, opting to turn back to his lunch. Just as well. Sherlock really wasn't in the mood to discuss his sister.

"There's so much I don't know about you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the doctor, who was now staring at him, awestruck. Sherlock sighed.

"There's also quite a bit you don't know about Rebecca," he pointed out, changing the subject. The less John knew about him, the happier everyone would be. "Perhaps I should give you a synopsis."

He waited for John to nod curiously before continuing, gearing up to release nineteen years of pent up aggression in one monologue.

"Rebecca was born when I was fifteen and Mycroft was twenty-two, and she was, as she points out, an accident, the unfortunate circumstance of an anniversary that got carried away. She was sent to boarding school as soon as possible, the same as her brothers, and would always visit with a new style of dress. Her 'emo' stage lasted from age fifteen until she was sent to rehabilitation. She experimented with drugs and casual sex during that time, mostly as an educational experience, cataloguing information on others as well as herself. She considers herself a scientist of reaction. She likes to play with people, see what they'll do in certain scenarios.

"She is lazy, manipulating, entitled, childish and annoying. She takes after me in the sense that my sociopath, pathological lying tendencies seem to have rubbed off on her, as well as a very strong case of obsessive compulsive disorder and, though no one will diagnose her, some form of high-functioning schizophrenia. We do not get along, though we were rather close while I was in college and she was growing up, and you will undoubtedly come home at times to arguments between us, as well as her sulking like a child. More of your possessions will be 'borrowed' and you're personal space will be invaded on a regular basis. The only reason I am permitting her to stay here is because she will split the rent, and she is my sister, so I feel a moral obligation to look after her."

Sherlock took a breath. "Also, don't expect those red pants back. She's grown fond of them."

His partner was silent for a moment, and Sherlock wondered for a moment whether he had given him some sort of aneurism. No, he would have fallen if that was true, and the look on his face would not be the one he had now, of acceptance and resignation.

"So, it'll be just like living with two of you?"

Sherlock would have been indignant, had he not found it so honest. Is that really what John thought of him?

"Yes, I suppose so," he said with a chuckle, "I suppose it will be- just one thing will be different."

"Oh, and what's that?"

"No matter what, Rebecca is not permitted to touch a nicotine patch. She'll have herself covered in them in minutes."

..


	3. Personally, I Never Had Much Patience

Chapter 3- Personally, I Never Had Patience For Rules

"So, uh, Rebecca, it is? Sherlock has explained your situation to me, and, uh, I figured it might be good to, uh, set some ground rules for-"

"Boring," she deadpanned, flipping over the back of Sherlock's chair and settling with legs thrown over the edge. Sherlock's clothes were incredibly comfortable, as were the red pants she'd borrowed from, supposedly, John. Thank god they where clean, if that was the case. Maybe she would just keep them, take them as an involuntary house-warming gift. She'd only been here two days and she was already enjoying it here.

"Right, well, you are rather like him, aren't you?" the dwarf asked, not really a question, just an act of frustration. She almost smiled at the thought. She was going to have fun with him.

"No, you will not be doing any more experimentation on my flatmate."

Sherlock had entered with his nose in a newspaper, not having to look at her to know what she was thinking. She and Sherlock had never had secrets. She'd known everything about him and he'd known everything about her, from the beginning. It was impossible for either of them to hide a thing.

Right now, Sherlock was unhappy with her, and she was trying to figure whether it was just her presence in general, or his protectiveness over John kicking in. Sherlock was, whether anyone else could see or not, incredibly possessive of his "flatmate." Though she'd had her suspicions at first, she now saw that they where clearly not a couple. They sat very separately, and neither of them showed any physical affection, but that wasn't it. The looks were there- the ones full of desire and concern and fondness and flirtation, but they never reached their recipient. John's gaze followed Sherlock surreptitiously, and sometimes the taller man would stare openly at his companion, but the other never seemed to notice.

So, they where attracted to each other, but neither of them would admit it. She didn't even think they'd realized it for themselves yet.

Interesting.

Presently, Sherlock sat down in John's seat and, without a second though, began sipping John's tea. The smaller man stood behind him for a moment, incredulous, but soon turned back to the kitchen, shaking his head, but with a fond smile on his face.

Very interesting.

Now, a test.

"So, how long have you boys been sleeping together? A week?"

The question fell into the room, followed by a crash from the kitchen. John had dropped a mug, and was now cursing avidly. Sherlock, had simply raised an eyebrow and was glaring at her with suspicion.

"What makes you think we're sleeping together?"

"You two are physically comfortable with each other, obviously, that is so obvious it doesn't need explanation. You've been sneaking looks behind each other's backs all morning- which means that you're tentative, but attracted. When you passed John the creamer, your hands brushed. John blushed- still sensitive toward physical contact- while your face was entirely impassive- still trying to detach yourself from the situation- but neither of you pulled away- still want to touch. Just now, you took John's coffee, and though he was indignant, he accepted it, smiling- still becoming acclimated to you, but fond, and trying to accept your oddities. So, from this, we can conclude that you two are attracted to each other, and have become physically acclimated to each other, but still tentative toward the situation. You're trying to keep things casual. So, knowing how quickly Sherlock adapts to any situation, you two can't have been sleeping together more than a week."

John was standing in the doorway of the kitchen staring at her in obvious discomfort and amazement. Sherlock, however, had an amused expression that she recognized all too well- an expression that says "I'm going to enjoy disproving your idiocy."

"Rebecca," Sherlock said, shaking his head, "We're physically comfortable because we live together. John blushed at my mention of some of his… habits that I'd rather not be able to hear when he's showering. I was passive because I was annoyed. John is not fond of my 'quirks' but resigned to them, accepting completely my tendency to take things that are not mine without thinking. From this, we can conclude, that you are almost as stupid as Anderson."

And with that, Sherlock Holmes opened a door he should not have opened.


	4. Platonically Speaking

Chapter 4- Platonically Speaking

"Alright, so, you aren't shagging, but there's something here…"

John sighed, turning back to kitchen. This was Sherlock and Rebecca's third day straight trying to out-deduce each other. As he prepared his tea, he tried his best to not think of whether it was Rebecca trying to prove they where sleeping together that upset him, or that Sherlock was going to such great pains to prove they weren't.

"Still not gay, by the way," he called into the dining room, "Just in care you were wondering."

"Yes, John, thank you for your insight," Rebecca called, then continued, more quietly, "That's something else. He's in denial of his feelings, obviously, or he wouldn't keep saying he wasn't gay…"

He let out another sigh, louder this time. This was Sherlock they where talking about. Sherlock didn't have sexual desires, his one and only vice was cigarettes, and that was just because of his addictive personality. Sherlock didn't have romantic desires, either. Sherlock was, John concluded, entirely uninterested in anyone that wasn't himself, and that suited John just fine. John would date his women and not think about that one time that, when he was having that nightmare where Sherlock was jumping and there was nothing he could do, that he woke up to find Sherlock's hand in his own, his soothing voice telling him it was only a dream. Telling him he would be fine.

John shook his head. Friends. That's what friends did. They comforted each other, and though Sherlock's approach was odd, but so were his approaches to pretty much everything.

"And honestly, Rebecca, do you really think that if I was gay, I wouldn't be going after someone with a little more… stature?"

John poked his head into the sitting room, where Rebecca was pacing idly, her fingers steepled under her chin in the same way Sherlock's usually where. He pointed a finger at the man, who was sprawled across the couch reading a newspaper.

"I take offense to that," he snapped, "I have plenty of stature."

Rebecca turned to him, eyebrows raised, and laughed, her chin tucking in to her neck and her mouth turning down, fighting back the chuckle growing in her throat, and John knew he had done the wrong thing. Great. Now he'd be painted as the jealous boyfriend.

"Do either of you want breakfast?"  
"Not hungry," the chorus came, and John almost shivered at how similar they where. Rebecca even had the same structure as Sherlock- tall and long and too-thin, with bones that stuck out every which-way. She even had the same stupid cheekbones and color-changing eyes.

John turned back to the kitchen, wondering if this battle of deductions would last forever, and if it did, would he survive it?

"Of course he wears product in his hair, have you seen it without any?"

"Well, you would have, if you'd showered with him."

"I would also known that if I'd seen him accidentally stumble into the wrong room after a shower."

"Oh, because that's perfectly believable."

John sighed, sitting down to his tea and yesterday's paper. Sherlock had said that Rebecca would lose interest in proving that the nature of their relationship wasn't what it seemed by the end of the week. He hoped to God that the world's only consulting detective had deduced correctly.

"Then how do you explain the… _lubricants_ in his top drawer?"

The doctor cursed, spilling some of his tea over his jumped, almost hearing the self-satisfied smirk on Rebecca's face.

It was going to be a very long week.


	5. Old Habits Die Hard

NOTE: This chapter got really fucking long and angst ridden, so be warned- Feels like woah ahead from here on in. Enjoy.

Chapter 5- Old Habits Die Hard

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, letting out an anxious sigh. Usually, down time made him bored, but tonight he was glad for a few moments of rest. John came and sat slowly across from him, pushing a cup of tea his way.

"Will we send her back to rehab, then? Is that what happens now?" John said, looking uncomfortable. He'd been so helpful this evening, Sherlock would have to thank him when he was thinking properly.

"No," Sherlock said quickly, "We'll buy her a pack of cigarettes."

John was silent for a moment, incredulous. Before he could go off, Sherlock conceded an explanation. "Rebecca is an addict, John, and nicotine patches aren't going to appease her. She has a faster metabolism than I do and a safe dosage won't even begin to help her cravings. She'll be limited in how many she can smoke a day. It will be a few years before nicotine patches will do it for her, and when they do she'll have to wear at least four. There really isn't any other way to help her. If we go cold turkey, she'll wind up throwing herself off the roof."

John leaned back in his seat again, his rage obviously passing, and it was a moment before Sherlock registered the shock on his friend's face and realized what he'd just said.

"I guess I shouldn't let you go cold turkey then, should I?"  
"Different," he said simply, "I'm older; my kidneys don't work as quickly."

John seemed almost appeased, so he leaned into his seat, brooding. His sister the addict.

She'd have to find a new experiment when she woke up, if she woke up.

_Two weeks prior._

It took Rebecca six days, eight hours, and thirteen minutes, and forty two seconds to lose interest.

And yes, Sherlock had been counting.

"Bored."

Presently, his sister was standing on the kitchen couch, a bow and arrow in her hands, aiming for the smiley face on the wall.

"What is that, the designated target practice?"

John stumbled into the kitchen, his morning grumpiness not out of the ordinary. He had a tendency to be a bit irritable after a poor night's sleep, which he'd definitely experienced. Rebecca had found Sherlock curled in front of John's door at three a.m., listening to his ragged, frightened breathing, wishing he could do something to help.

She hadn't said a word to him since.

Now, she was wallowing in boredom, loosing the arrow, which sank itself deep into the center of the smiley. A smile passed her face before she fell onto her back, a strangled groan growing in her throat.

"Sherlock, just one more experiment, please?"

Suddenly, Sherlock knew why Mycroft hadn't wanted to take care of Rebecca. The younger brother had been the same when he'd lived with him after rehabilitation, always begging for just _one more experiment, _which really just meant _one more hit._

How tedious.

"No," Sherlock droned automatically, "And we're locking you in here when we go out to our case."

"You really think I wouldn't be able to get out?" she deadpanned from the doorway, and he realized, rather to his annoyance, that she was wearing his purple shirt with a pair of jeans that were just a bit too big. He had been planning on wearing that today.

"We really need to get you some of your own clothes," he noted, "What size are you? Still Double 0?"

"One now," she sighed, leaning against the doorframe, "I had to eat three meals a day in rehab. Rather dull, really."

There was silence for a moment, while John watched the exchange with a mixture of amusement and fascination, and Sherlock tried not to note out loud that Rebecca had gained exactly five and half pounds, and was actually a size zero when-

"You're slipping, bro, I'm actually a zero," she giggled like a please child, doing a pull-up on the door frame, "I'm almost insulted that you didn't notice."

More silence. John sipping tea, still watching, Rebecca doing pull-ups on the door frame, and Sherlock staring at the socks in front of him. This set he was trying to bleach white without actual bleach. He was glad for the case they where starting today- triple homicide, no windows, room locked from the inside.

"Can I have a smoke? I mean, I am nineteen, I'm allowed to-"

"No," Sherlock repeated, thanking god that he'd locked his nicotine patches in his safe. Rebecca had smoked three packs a day before they sent her in. "You're not allowed to."

Rebecca groaned, swinging back and forth on the top of the doorframe, then launching herself into the kitchen, landing just inches from the table. "Come on," she groaned, leaning over the table, "I need one."

Sherlock would have to speak to Mycroft about the rehabilitation center that she'd been sent to. Obviously, they were rather ineffective. "No drugs, nicotine included. Besides, if I have to suffer without any cigarettes, so do you," he noted, shooting John a look, who rolled his eyes and feigned innocence. Dull.

"Keeps you on a short leash then, does he now?" Rebecca teased, but he could tell her heart wasn't in it. She really as rather bored.

"How about we make a deal," he said, thinking he would probably regret this if Rebecca was anything like he was. "You may use my chemicals and supplies if, and only if, you promise not to ingest anything that isn't edible. Which includes the bath salts I have in the top cabinet. We don't need you gnawing at John's face."

"No, we'll leave that to you," Rebecca deadpanned, then turned to him, suddenly interested, "But really? I can use your supplies?"  
"Absolutely, just don't cook any methamphetamine, please."

An hour later, Sherlock left the apartment to Rebecca experimenting with acid and asking him to bring several body parts home with him, and thinking to himself that he must have made a deal with the devil.

It didn't take long for things to get out of hand.

Just on that first day, Rebecca burned herself with acid, accidentally ingested three known carcinogens, and ruined Sherlock's favorite bed sheet. He had curled himself into a ball on the couch, away from the kitchen as Rebecca and John chatted over her wounds in the kitchen.

"Oh, you should have seen it, though!-ow- It was incredibly- OW. – tall and there was this moment where I thought- OW!- I'd discovered a new life for- SHIT!" she was silent in pain for a moment, as John cleaned her shoulder, "Is this going to scar? I suppose we'll match if it does."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. That was a line even he wouldn't cross- commenting on John's scars. Rebecca must have had the social decency to notice what she'd said was wrong, because her tone was much quieter when she'd spoken again.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult," she conceded, "I suppose my social skills are just as horrific as my brother's, aren't they?"

"A bit," John said curtly, "And it will scar."

"Lovely," she sighed, "But what's one more scar, right?"

John was silent, and Sherlock knew that she was right. She had three scars on her arms from infected needles, others from falls and burns and other ungodly things covered her. She was painted in white lines, ever so faint against her already pale skin, but noticeable, none the less.

Over the following days, things got progressively worse. Rebecca began canvassing the apartment, looking for anything she could do that was dangerous. She spent plenty of time on the roof (which, Sherlock noted, rather impressed , was achieved by scaling the side of the building), receding there whenever she would do something stupid and get herself hurt, just to get away from Sherlock. He really couldn't blame her- whenever she did something reckless, he was merciless. The girl just needed to learn. She needed to learn that not all interesting experiments put you into contact with fatal disease and serious injury. She needed to learn how to control her curiosity.

She needed to learn to not be such a Holmes.

"At least I'm not throwing myself off the building on a lark," she'd spat one day, after a particularly dangerous bout of trying to create the illusion of being hanged without actually doing it. She had failed, unfortunately, and they had come home just as she was kicking the chair.

"You're lucky you aren't dead. If we'd come home any later…"

That was why he was so eager to get home. Rebecca hadn't left the flat in all of the three weeks she'd been there, and he was worried she was getting bored again. Her experiments, though increasingly dangerous, were becoming half hearted, and she was slowly slipping into bored habits, complaining increasingly about not being able to smoke.

"It's my lungs and I'll do with them what I like," she'd groaned, going into her usual routine of kitchen-door-jam-pull-ups, "And just because you're quitting doesn't mean I have to. Seriously, I'm so bored I could die."

Some days, Sherlock wished she would. The case they were working on now- a wonderful serial killer who stole his victim's teeth, made then into necklaces, and sent them to their owner's next-to-kin- was taking up an awful lot of his time, time he could not waste listening to his perfectly adult sister whine about cigarettes.

"I am saving people, Rebecca," he'd spat earlier, "Stopping killers. Do you have something to say that's more important than that?"

She had had several things, of course, to say that were seemingly much more important than that. Sherlock had listened to all of them carefully, then promptly deleted them. That much profanity was incredibly unbecoming in Rebecca, who he had left curled defiantly in his chair, blank eyes staring in to space.

Still, he worried, and wondered, and tried to deduce, but not even he could figure what was in store upon their arrival at the flat.

"Maybe we should invite her to come with us," John said, startling him out of his thoughts, "She's objective, she hasn't seen any evidence yet. She might be able to help, since no one can seem to figure out who this killer is."

Sherlock thought for a moment, then nodded once in response. Good. It would keep Rebecca busy, introduce her to the Yard, and help with the case in several ways. If he could just refrain from murdering her in the time being, it would be a lovely way to distract Rebecca from her self-destructive behavior.

"Yes, that is a very good idea John," he said with a nod, not being able to fight the amazement in his tone, "Very good indeed."

"Always the tone of surprise," John shot back, chuckling as he watched the traffic pass out of his window. Sherlock observed him for a moment, thinking, as usual.

Was Rebecca at all grounded in her accusations? No, he and John had never had any sort of romantic implications in their relationship, had never even considered it. But something in Sherlock made him remember how closely they watched out for each other, the fact that he was willing to throw himself from a building to save John. He sat outside of his bedroom when he had nightmares, had even snuck in once, when the screaming was unbearable, to hold his friend's hand and help him ride out the terror. Sherlock had let John in more closely than he had ever let anyone, and it was vaguely frightening to imagine their being ever more feelings beyond the obvious ones.

He thought of the night he'd returned, after John was done screaming about how much he hated him, how much he'd lost to him, and how he was never going to speak to him again as long as he lived, when the man had broken down. Sherlock had spent a shocked minute watching, then cradled the broken man against him, listening to him sob silently in something between absolute happiness and disbelief and grief. And that whisper, the one neither had ever mentioned, over and over into the fabric of Sherlock's shirt.

"Never leave, alright? Just don't ever leave again. Don't leave me, Sherlock. Stay.. stay…"

"Do you plan on paying for the time you spend sitting here, because if you do, I'll be upstairs."

Sherlock jumped, shocked from his thoughts. Without a word, he stepped out of the cab, passing a note between the front headrests, remembering the week John spent walking around London, refusing to take cabs, after they'd solved the mystery behind his blog post "A Study In Pink."

Sherlock still hated that title.

"Rebecca?"

Sherlock would have called as well, but he knew it was useless from the moment they entered the apartment. Not a single nose permeated the darkness, and the window was shut. Rebecca had slept almost a full night the last night, so she wouldn't be sleeping for a few days. A pair of Sherlock's pants were hung over the back of John's chair, and there was something else, something he was missing.

Then it hit him- the skull was cocked at an angle varying forty-three degrees from their position when this morning.

Behind the skull on the mantle, was a dark circle beside a small keypad. A series of numbers popped the circle out from the wall, which could then be used to open the safe beyond. Because of its easy accessibility, Sherlock had never kept anything of much importance there- just a few packs of emergency nicotine patches.

It was then that he noticed the empty cardboard boxes on the coffee table.

Shit.

He was in the kitchen before John could even enter the flat, and there she was, sprawled across the kitchen table, face first, in a white tank top and John's red pants, nicotine patches lining her body- twenty-four on her arms, twenty-one on the insides of her thighs, and five aligned straight down her spine.

_Shit._

"Start peeling patches, John," he hissed immediately, reaching for her right arm, "She's unconscious, but has only been for a three and half minutes, having applied the patches ten minutes ago. On the verge of over-dose, but not quite. She won't have to go to the hospital if we pull them all off as quickly as possible."

It took John precious seconds to react, just standing stunned in the doorway for a six, seven, eight seconds, before springing into action. He peeled the rest of the patches, checked her pulse and breathing, and began other various doctor-type checks on her, while Sherlock stood back warily, his mind blank.

She would sleep for a while, her body recovering from the massive amounts of nicotine. She would only wake to sweating and wanting and craving, and the come-down would be miserable. She would feel awful for weeks.

She was going to be fine.

Then was why was he so worried?

Why was he so proud of how easily John was taking care of her?

Why was he impressed by how his flatmate lifted Rebecca with ease, carrying to her room and setting her down in bed?

Why was he so scared of what would happen to his sister?

Why was the room spinning.

Sherlock passed John in the hallway on his way to Rebecca, just to check on her before they left her alone for the night.

Bloody sentiment. Always getting in the way. He had no room for sentiment, no room for all these damned _feelings._ He cringed at the thoughts, then, as he closed the door on Rebecca, he shut them down, forgot them. Pushed them aside and deleted them from his memory.

Sentiment had no place in his mind.


	6. The Nine Year Old Genius

Chapter 6- The Nine Year Old Genius

Rebecca was a medical miracle.

John was amazed when, just three days of shaking and sweating and sleeping after her almost-overdose, the girl stumbled into the kitchen asking if he could put in a piece of toast for her. Instead, Sherlock had thrown her a pack of cigarettes, and, without a word, she'd lit up the first one, purposefully blowing the smoke in her brother's direction.

John just shook his head, incredulous. Of course, Rebecca had recovered from a near overdose on nicotine in less than a week. Of course, she'd start smoking right away, if rather moderately, the moment she was recovered. Of course, she'd complain about being bored moments later.

Of course she'd solve their case within a minute of setting eyes on a crime scene.

This was the fourth killing in the nasty-tooth-murderer's case, and he had yet to make a mistake. Even Sherlock couldn't narrow down the seven suspects they had, and they seemed to be at a dead end.

"Lestrade, is it anything like the othe-" John asked as they approached the scene, but was interrupted by Sherlock freezing to observe the situation.

"Fly open, flushed, pupils dilated. Obviously aroused at time of death, with someone who was attempting to pleasure him. Victim was married, but a serial adulterer, closeted gay. His wife was the same- that was their arrangement, each got their own lovers and they kept up appearances for the neighbors, their family, and they got all the benefits of marriage. Murderer was someone he met that night, not someone he knew well. Intoxicated? Slightly, not too inebriated. Injected with-what was it, cyanide?-while the murderer was… on his knees. He was then incapacitated from behind when he turned, his spinal chord severed by a blunt force object."

John's eyebrows rose with those of everyone else at the scene, who had stopped to watch Sherlock think aloud. Anderson was trying, but failing, to keep from laughing at the sound of Sherlock speaking about gay sex, and John could feel the man's eyes on his back.

Fucking suspicious prat.

"So…" John mused, "We can count out the three women, then, can we?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, fingers steepled over his lips, as was his customary thinking pose. "I suppose we can."

Before John could come up with some sort of witty retort, or Lestrade could comment on the development, John felt a cold hand grasp his wrist, and before he knew it, he was kneeling on the pavement, one arm behind his back, an elbow to the back of his neck, and Sherlock's hand grasping both his arm and that of the perpetrator.

"Seems about right, doesn't it, Sherly?"

The familiar drawl made John freeze. Rebecca released him, letting her hands slip off of his jumper. He stood quickly, shaking out his limbs and rolling his neck.

"Thanks for that, Rebecca," he snapped, "And what's about right?"

"Sorry about your boyfriend, but he's the same height as the victim," Rebecca continued to Sherlock, ignoring him, "And I seem to be the same height as the murderer. There was no blunt force _object _involved here; the murderer used his elbow to snap the victim's neck."

Sherlock shot her a look, folding his arms in front of his chest, and John couldn't help but blush. It was one thing for Rebecca to make comments in the privacy of their flat, but for her to show up at a crime scene and start talking like that…

"Murderer is a Caucasian male, prostitute, just under six feet, one-ninety, with former military service, probably kicked out. About twenty-two or twenty-three years old, hair-blonde, dyed, originally… red, I believe… Irish descent, which makes him…"

The dawning came over Sherlock's face first, and at the same time they both said, "Jimmy O'Connor, the barber."

Silence, absolute and amazed. Even Anderson looked impressed by Rebecca, who turned to Lestrade with a professional smile.

"Rebecca Holmes," she said cheerfully, "You must be Detective Inspector Lestrade, pleasure."

"Ah, yes, Sherlock told me about you," Lestrade said, shaking her hand, and John could tell he was shocked. Rebecca had gotten new clothes after her recovery, and was decked out in skinny jeans, a black tank top, a variety of studded belts, cross jewelry, and a long, thick black leather coat she'd purchased one whim, getting rather excited over and refusing to take off, even falling asleep on the couch in it.

"I'm sure he has," she winked, and Lestrade blushed. Interesting mix; a shameless, barely legal flirt and an unhappy, incredibly tempted husband. John hoped Rebecca didn't take him as her next experiment; Sherlock had mentioned something about casual sex in the list of his sister's endeavors.

He tried not to remember that Sherlock had also mentioned that she was just like he had been at that age.

"Prostitute?" Sherlock asked, and John wished again that he could have a moment in that man's brain, to remember every detail of everything, expanding and analyzing it into submission.

Rebecca nodded, appraising the body with a familiar detached interest. "A friend of mine hired Jimmy for his services a few months ago. I say friend, more of an acquaintance. Experiment, really. Nah… accessory to an experiment, if that."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said no more, taking a moment to glare distastefully at his sister for a moment, and John realized what had just happened.

Rebecca had stolen Sherlock's thunder.

Sherlock Holmes, king of deduction, detachment, and all things experimental, had been out deduced, out detached, and out experimented by a nineteen year old girl.

He was going to have fun with this.

"So, that's it then," Lestrade interrupted, "O'Connor is the killer and that's it?"

"Well…" Sherlock paused, thinking quietly out loud, "There where pliers in his shop, not common for barbers, he had the gait of a military man, and then there's the fact that his shop was in disrepair, business rather poor… he was obviously selling himself to pick extra money. He began to resent it, deciding he could get more money if he killed his clients, hence the missing wallets. Then the sadistic murder kicked in, and he began to obsess, stealing their teeth as trophies, but feeling so guilty looking at him that he passed the guilt on, sending the teeth to the loved ones of his victims… keeping the right back molar as his trophy, instead of all of them… that explains that fairly well…"

"So, yes," Sherlock said, louder, seeming to realize only then that he was speaking, "Jimmy O'Connor is the killer. I'd arrest him as soon as possible if I where you, Lestrade. Things are getting a bit messy. Come along, Rebecca, we have to go."

Sherlock was bustling off in a swirl of coat and scarf and hair and cheekbones in a moment, leaving them behind, as usual.

And, as usual, John said good-bye to everyone for both of them, following now two silent Holmeses out to the street. All the while, trying to hold in his laughter at Sherlock's petty, childish anger.

"Sorry to steal your thunder, dear," Rebecca said, giddy, as the siblings sat on either side of John in the cab, "But it really had to be done, before that madman killed anyone else."

Sherlock, scoffed, pulling his knees to his chest, and spent the rest of the car ride staring at the window, while John tried, at first, to stifle his laughter. After making eye-contact with Rebecca, though, he lost it completely, giggling madly into his hands, earning himself a praising beam from Rebecca, as well as a spiteful glare from her brother.

"I'm sorry," he cackled, and Sherlock grumbled something about maturity, rather ironically. No matter how tough he acted, Sherlock would always be incredibly childish when it came to his family, his pride, and his work.

Things where going to be very, very fun with the youngest Holmes around.


	7. Fascinating

Chapter 7- Fascinating

"You should have seen it Molly, it was hilarious… he's still fuming about it…"

Almost a week later, and Rebecca could still hear John gushing about her intellectual beat down of Sherlock to the Cute Lab Rat. Molly, Rebecca decided, was an incredibly boring name, average in too many ways, of someone so interesting, so when she came in today, she'd decided to leave all social decency behind and refer to her by the new nickname she'd assigned her.

"So you must be Cute Lab Rat, CLR for short," Rebecca deadpanned, her lips curling at the dramatic way her leather coat curled around her ankles when she slid to a stop, "Pleasure to meet you, Sherlock's told me quite a bit about you. And, by that, I mean he's avoided talking to me while John prattles on about anything and everything. You'd be surprised how much you can learn about someone just by the reactions people have to their names- Sherlock's body language told me wonders about you."

Molly blushed, probably thinking all the wrong things. What Rebecca really meant was that when Sherlock had heard Molly's name, he had flinched. That meant plenty of things to Rebecca: Molly was attractive, about his age, probably would have been Sherlock's girlfriend if he'd done that sort of thing, and she was obsessed with him. It made him uncomfortable to be around her; with the amount of affection she was pointedly not showing hanging awkwardly in the air between them.

"John's told me about you," Molly said as a greeting. Great. John thought she was insane.

Though, he was probably right.

"So, what are we working on today?" Rebecca asked, jumping up to hang from the florescent light above, pulling herself up to her chin before lowering herself down. Molly watched her warily, probably over-estimating her mass and thinking she would break the lamps.

"Don't bother, Molly, she just does that," John explained, "You should see the top moldings on our doors- she's going to fall off of them one day!"

"When did you get so paranoid, _Jawn_?" she teased, dragging out the word with a teasing smile. He grimaced up at her, then gave a pointed look at the band of red just above her jeans. He was really missing those pants, wasn't he? Interesting.

Rebecca watched Molly as she laughed before turning back to her microscope. Molly was a pretty girl, a little average looking, and with a horrid sense of fashion, but a pleasing face- warm and sweet. Not really Sherlock's type, was she? Too nice. He was more into the Irene Adler's of the world.

Or the Johns. That was possible too.

Rebecca pulled up her knees, slipping them between her arms, preparing. In a moment, she flipped all the way over, landing with her feet planted firmly on the ground, casually stretching her back. Molly, the Lab Rat, jumped and let out a quiet yelp- easily scared, but timid, didn't want to make too much noise, and would probably smile apologetically momentarily. Ooh, yellow fingers, she must have quit the same time Mrs. Hudson had forced Sherlock to do so, trying to connect with him, build a bond. Obviously in love with him, hopelessly so. Rather pathetic, seeing as Sherlock would never in a million years-

"You murmur when you think, did you know that? No one can really understand you; you just start staring at people and muttering. It's incredibly unbecoming."

"Well, someone's feeling like a moody teenager today…" Rebecca quipped, watching as her brother rushed to a microscope, focus twitching in his eyes. John watched him adamantly, seemingly amazed by Sherlock's complete lack of distraction, even when insulting people. Very, very interesting.

"So, CLR," Rebecca said, enunciating every letter, leaning gently over the counter, checking her fingernails, "How's Mr. Cuddles?"

Molly dropped the slide she was working with to stare at Rebecca, quickly trying to gain her composure.

"How did you… I mean, I don't… I never even told Sherlock or John I had a cat."

"Oh, a cat it is?" Rebecca asked casually, "You struck me for more of a dog type. In case you where wondering, there's hair on the hem of your pants, thick, relatively long- you have a pet. You're incredibly average, entirely un-extraordinary in any matter behind your intelligence and bravery. You would choose a boring name for your animal, something that anyone could think of, and, seeing as you seek male companionship due to your unrequited love for… people, you'd look for a male animal, subconsciously, of course- Mr.- and you would want this animal close to you, having it there for a physical companionship- Cuddles."

Molly was blushing to her ears, and John was watching Rebecca with a look somewhere between anger and shock. Sherlock kept examining his slide.

"Intelligence and bravery," he said suddenly, looking up to stare at her, a challenge in his eyes, "Explain."

"Helping you fake your death," she said answered instantly, "Risking her life to help a man who barely pays her any mind. Helps you solve crimes, and keeps up relatively well, so she must be very smart. Also, there's something about her… She's timid, but defiant at the same time… Fascinating…"

Rebecca had made eye contact with Molly at some point, who was staring at her, awestruck. Rebecca stared back, watching the woman's pupils dilate as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and pleasure. She really was rather desperate for attention, and this person who looked so much like the man she loved, leaning over the counter and saying that she was so enthralling, so incredible... when really, it wasn't Molly Rebecca was interested in- it was her reactions.

"Of course, the science of personality isn't quite as exact as the science of deduction," Rebecca noted, "I'd have to run a few more tests to be entirely sure."

Molly, at that, snapped back to reality. Obviously, her brother had warned the scientist about her social experiments. Now, she watched Rebecca with fearful interest. Rebecca had encountered this before- people unwilling to admit that they where fine with letting her rampage their minds, as long as they got a taste of that fascination she'd originally shown in them.

As long as she kept watching them.

However, eventually, she always lost interest, and people became predictable, and she would toss them aside, but never before carefully deconstructing and ruining their lives.

"Stop it."

Rebecca and Molly both jumped, turning to see Sherlock staring into his microscope, John still watching interestedly.

"Excuse me, I'm paying a compliment he-"

"No, you're not, you're trying to reel her in," Sherlock snapped, straightening to address Molly, "You are, Molly, interesting to my sister. She finds the layers of your personality to be a challenge, an experience she can learn from. If you let her charm you, she will take over your life, deconstructing every layer of your personality, testing all of your boundaries, and probably getting you hooked on some sort of illegal substances. When she has dissected each aspect you your mind, torn apart your personality and carefully reconstructed it, laid your head out in front of her, bare, at her disposal, she will drop you, leave you flat and bare and alone. Do not trust my sister, Molly, she is manipulative and she will tear… you… apart."

The room was silent, Molly staring, horrified, between the two Holmeses, John watching with mild interest, and Sherlock turning back to his microscope.

"Social experiments are fine, Rebecca, but no drugs, and not with any of my colleagues."

Rebecca smiled, winked at Molly, who blushed, despite what she'd just heard. The younger Holmes jumped back up into position, hanging lazily from the florescent lab lights, thinking.

Sherlock didn't want her to do social experiments on his friends, but he was implying that she could go elsewhere for subjects. She could find a new experiment tonight; wander the city until someone caught her eye, her interest…

"I'll see you at the flat, then," she said cheerily, launching herself, much to Molly's surprise, on to the lab table, "Don't be surprised if I've got someone with me; I'm experiment hunting."

With that, she strut down the table, jumping off of the end, and waved cheerily to her boys and their lab rat before slipping out of the morgue, a plan formulating in her head. A plan she was all but twitching with excitement over.

A plan that she could never get bored with.


	8. Emma

NOTE: This shit gets pretty confusing in this chapter, but trust me, it will all get explained eventually. I am god of my own personal Sherlock universe, and everything will make sense in time. In the mean time, enjoy the introduction of ANOTHER NEW CHARACTER. WHOO-HOO. Also, note that all of your reviews are appreciated, so thanks to all of the people who have sent them so far (hint-hint, nudge-nudge). NOW- Embrace the feels and carry-on reading.

Chapter 8- Emma

Sherlock was, for lack of a better word, worried.

"Rebecca, you can't just sit here and mope forever," he snapped, pouring himself a cup of tea, his eleventh of the night, "At least leave the room as to not bother everyone with your complete desolation."

Rebecca snorted, quick to reply with a nasty sneer. "Jealous of whatever girl it is that John's got out tonight, are we? Worried he won't be coming home?"

_Yes, just not in the way you think._

Sherlock was, in fact, worried about John not coming home, but not because he didn't want John sleeping with anyone. John was a healthy man- he had needs. It wasn't like _they_ where dating, even. If the doctor wanted to spend the night doing everything but sleeping with some barely-legal intern with no life experience and even fewer conversational skills, let him have at it. No, Sherlock wasn't worried that John was going to be with anyone- he would be relieved if John was going to be with someone.

No, it was nearly three o'clock in the morning, and John was yet to text him, informing him he was staying with someone, as was his custom, come home, or make any sort of contact. He was missing, and there was nothing Sherlock hated more than not knowing something- especially John's whereabouts.

And, on top of it all, he could here Mrs. Turner's married ones going at it next door. So loudly, in fact, he almost didn't hear the slight gasp that his phone emitted momentarily.

3:21 a.m.

Ifm brignsh Em bacjd to the fakt, ccc !

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the text, his worry doubling. Had John been drugged or something? What could he possibly be trying to say? Sherlock barely heard his sister chuckle as she slipped out of the window, taking her usual place on the roof. Damn it, what was wrong with him?

"And then I said, 'No, Sherlock, I won't let you turn the kitchen into a nuclear power plant!' and he... and he screamed! Threw a hissy-fit like a little girl!"

The drawled words coming from the street where interrupted by a shriek of laughter, young and vibrant and drunk. John had been reluctant to go out with the girl tonight. Said she was young. Not an intern- a student. Art student. Promised she was twenty-eight, though he doubted it.

Suddenly, Sherlock was standing up very straight.

Ifm brignsh- I'm bringing.

The pair tumbled into the front door.

Em bacjd to the fakt- Em back to the flat.

"Shh, you'll wake, my... my Sherlo-my flatmate!"

ccc usdoun- See you soon.

The key turning in the latch.

Babbeeey- Baby.

Sherlock caught John just as he fell over the threshold, barely coherent, with an equally inebriated date on his arm.

"Sherlock! You're still up!" he yelled joyously, throwing himself into the sitting room, "I was just telling Emma about you!"

"You're drunk," he snapped, paying no attention to the blonde hanging lazily against the door, "And we have an agreement."

"Wha- oh, that, well, Emma's roommate didn't want her bringing me home, so I figured, maybe, you could disappear for a little while if you know what I mean," John hissed, giggling like a school girl. He stunk of beer and sweat and drunken arousal, and Sherlock felt a wave of nausea surface at the stench for more than one reason. He'd seen John like this once before, and it was not an experience he cared to repeat.

"Emma, is it?" Sherlock asked, undoing John's belt as the doctor stared dazedly into the distance, not even protesting the action, "You're welcome to sleep on the couch, but since Marco and Paul have been so boisterous tonight, I would rather not have to listen to my flatmate _go at it _as well. So, if you don't mind, this man- the one that's far too old for you- will be going to bed. You're welcome to slip out before he wakes in the morning to avoid embarrassment."

Sherlock had, as he was speaking, been looping John's belt around the man's wrists, and presently led him up the stairs and into his bedroom without another word to the dazed looking slut the doctor had brought home.

"Sherlo-Sherlock what are you doing? Why am I tied up? Where's Emma?"  
"I can't risk you hurting yourself. Last time you where this drunk, you punched me in the face. Don't worry, I'll keep you on your side for the night. Emma will be downstairs, I'm sure you two will have a lovely chat in the morning, if the peroxide hasn't destroyed _all _of her brain cells."

"So that's no then, is it? To the disappearing thing?"  
"Shut up, John."

"No!" the smaller man cried, trying to push himself out of the bed, not realizing he was bound to the headboard, "Why can't you just let me have this one… this one vice, or whatever it is? Why not?"

"I have no patience for drunks, John. Anyway, you have so much alcohol in your blood system, you wouldn't have any memory of the less-than-impressive relations you and Emma would take part in this evening. I'll be in to check on you in a bit, get some sleep."

Sherlock swished out of the room as quickly as possible, leaving John to whine and mope alone. It was true, Sherlock had never had any patience for drunk people; they where even more stupid than usual.

"Where's John?"  
"He's a bit old for you, isn't he?"  
"I guess, but he's nice."

"Yeah, well, that doesn't mean you had to come home with him."

Sherlock paused, watching Rebecca help Emma out of her dress and into a well-worn t-shirt. His sister had a look on her face he had never seen before, interest and speculation tinged with actual concern and wonder. Almost affectionate, endeared. Hmm. He'd have to look in to that.

"I know, I know… sometimes I don't even know what I'm doing… just drifting…" the blonde drawled, and Sherlock saw under her cosmetic mask for the moment, seeing an almost childish look about her, and realized she must only be about Rebecca's age. God, so young. So destroyed.

"Drifting never worked for me," Rebecca noted, more to herself, as she laid a blanket over the girl, tucking her in to the couch. Gently, she ran a hand down Emma's face, "Too dull."

John's date giggled, then let her eyes droop wearily. "Your very odd, did you know that? All of you," she breathed, glazed eyes already rolling back into her head, then just before she slipped away, she let out one last sigh, "Very odd indeed."

Sherlock watched wearily, the unfamiliar look on Rebecca's face disconcerting him. "Yeah, I guess I am," she said, to herself again, and turned away, almost with a smile on her face, "I really, really am. That's our job though, isn't it Sherlock? We Holmes are always the odd ones."

"Yes, I suppose so," Sherlock noted, leaning against the door jam. Such sentiment, coming form the righteous queen of heartlessness. Fascinating. "You seem to have taken an interesting in our guest," he smirked, changing the subject. Time to diffuse the feeling in the room- the air was getting clammy with emotion, and he could feel stupidity festering in their depths. Disgusting, messy things- feelings.

"She's interesting, alright," Rebecca conceded, "I think I'll ask for her help with some experiments. Nothing too extreme, of course. I'm done ruining lives, breaking hearts…"

Sherlock nodded absently, thinking. Rebecca would use Emma for a few detached experiments, nothing too serious, as she said, and promptly drop her like last week's paper. Simple. Nothing too life-altering could happen in the time it would take Rebecca to lose interest, and Emma would live on with haunted memory of having known a Holmes, been one of their favorites, for the rest of her life.

Would that ever happen with John? He wondered…

"So, what happened last time he got this drunk? I assume he didn't come home with his date; that part surprised you."

The elder Holmes glared at his sister, who had contempt shining in her eyes.

"What, Mycroft and I can't call you 'the Virgin' anymore, is that it?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, remembering.

"Well…" he said drawly, then turned back to the kitchen, "You could, but you'd be wrong."

Silence.

"What?"

"I believe you heard me the first time, Rebecca."

More silence, then-

"You- you _shagged _your _flatmate?_ Sherlock I-don't-have-friends Holmes, shagged his heterosexual, army-doctor, PTSD, partner-in-crime-solving _flatmate?_"

Rebecca was cackling, and Sherlock could even hear Emma shuffle in her sleep at the sound.

"Please, Rebecca, you'll wake the children."

"Are you serious right now? You shagged John? _Dr._ John _Watson_?"

"I'm sure you can deduce that for yourself, dear sister."

Sherlock listened as his sister's laughter slowly trailed off, followed by incredulous silence. Not really a problem. Better she thought they had thoroughly "shagged" than what had actually happened.

Because, honestly, Sherlock wasn't entirely clear on the details of that night either. It was all a blur, and one he was trying very hard to repress. Only one good thing had come from this night, though.

Rebecca would be sufficiently preoccupied for at least two weeks. Plenty of time for Sherlock to recover from being embarrassed at a crime scene by his _little sister._


	9. New Toys and Old Pains

NOTES: HEY LOOK WHO FINALLY UPDATED! Sorry guys, I was on vacation, shit got crazy, and I forgot to worn you that I'd be neglecting my fanfic. ALSO, TRIGGER WARNING- this chapter involves certain destructive behaviors that my remind people of suicide, though that's not the point, so I just need to cover my ass. Okay, that made little sense. Here, have a chapter.

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Chapter 9- New Toys and Old Pains

The morning after had been sufficiently awkward, but, to Rebecca's relief and fascination, Emma had recovered quite quickly from the incident. She even made a few jokes in the days following, something along the lines of "At least we didn't get funky with those Holmes around" and "God, you really are far too old for me, aren't you?"  
That last one may not have been a joke, though, Rebecca really couldn't tell. John didn't seem to think it was very funny.

In the days that had followed, things got interesting.

Rebecca and Emma had, believe it or not, fun. Rebecca kept track of Emma's vitals, running various experiments. She kept track as the girl danced and talked and saw different sights around London, and she learned quite a bit. Emma was new to the city, having moved in from a small town just months before, and she was, as Sherlock and Rebecca had predicted, only twenty. She told the other girl about her family and her dreams of becoming an artist, even showing her some of her drawings. Rebecca was amazed by the information she was willing to disclose to someone she barely knew, someone she had just met not a week ago.

"You trust me," she said one day, not really asking, just noticing, observing, as usual.

Emma blushed, tucking her hair behind her ear, a nervous, unconscious habit Rebecca had noticed early on. Every once in a while, the blonde (with incredibly dark roots, mind you) would grow incredibly shy, and, after tucking her hair behind her ear, she'd smile and giggle like a little girl.

It was adorable.

No, not adorable. Fascinating.

It was a new feeling, having Emma around. She was witty, almost as witty as Rebecca, and made plenty of affectionately nasty comments toward Sherlock, John, Rebecca, and even Mycroft when he stopped by. The days passed happily, and she was almost never bored, always something new to learn about Emma. Everything time she turned around, the girl was doing something new.

And then there was Sherlock and John. As a side project, Rebecca was deconstructing the homoerotic subtext and seemingly romantic implications that the men's relationship seemed to be laced with. Basically, she was out to prove that they were crushing on each other. So far, she had lined up several ways to expose their feelings to each other, but it would take some time before she could put any of her hypotheses to test. Today, though, she was busy.

Today, Rebecca was busy with a very interesting idea.

"Sherlock explain his thought process to you?" John asked as she tied to noose expertly, letting the rope slide between her fingers. God, if her mother could see her internet history, she'd send her straight back into therapy.

"You forget, John, we have very similar minds," she scoffed, tightening the rope and attaching it to the harness she had prepared, "No, just an experiment. I'm testing Emma's emotional attachment to me, as well as her capacity to act during a crisis."

John raised his eyebrows but said nothing, and both of them knew that, when Sherlock was home from stabbing something with his harpoon, he would have several things to say about her experiment. At the moment, Rebecca chewed the tip of her tongue and hung the noose carefully, standing on a kitchen chair as she latched on the harness.

"Haven't you done this before? And didn't you almost die?"

"Yes, well," she sighed, tightening the noose slowly around her neck. God, what an awful feeling. "If I motion choking, that means that it isn't working and I'm actually in danger of asphyxiation. I don't think it will, though. I've changed the center of gravity so that my weight will be more evenly distributed throughout the harness and…"

She trailed off as John's eyes glazed over, not really listening to her explanation, and finished fidgeting with the noose before checking the clock. It would still be an hour before Emma got there, might as well test it out in the mean time.

John sighed and left the room as Rebecca tilted the chair away from her.

"Where's Rebec- For God's sake, Rebecca, can you at least _try _not to die at least one day this week?"

"Yes, well, do you think you might be able to help me with that? You see, I hung myself up here about an hour ago and I can't exactly feel my lower extremities. Emma's a tad late."

"No, I think I'll leave you up there for your little friend to find. That's all part of the plan isn't it?"

"I'm serious Sherlock. I've lost feeling in my thighs ten minutes ago, and I'm not even sure I can feel my… other… parts."

"Well, you'll just have to have the Blonde Bimbo help you down, won't you? Come along, John, we best be getting to the crime scene soon."

"Sherlock Lennox Holmes, you get your skinny ass back into this flat right now and lower me from this noose!"

"Shan't."

"Your middle name is Lennox?"

Rebecca rolled her eyes at John's questions and squirmed in the harness. It was true, Emma was late, and Rebecca couldn't feel more than most of her legs, and John and Sherlock were heading to the Yard to tell Lestrade about a woman who _had_ in fact had the ability to harpoon her husband to a wall.

And she really couldn't feel anything from the waist down. Or most of her arms.

"Shit," she hissed, clenching her fists, trying to regain feeling. Maybe this wasn't the best idea after all.

"Rebecca? Should I just come up?"

The intercom buzzed with Emma's voice.

"Sorry, I'm late… are you up there?"

No use yelling to her, she would never hear from the street.

"Alright, well, I'm going to come up…"

Rebecca went limp, hearing Emma come slowly up the stairs. She might as well go through with the experiment, seeing as she wasn't getting down from here herself.

"Rebecca? Are you he-"

As she tried not to breathe, the hanging girl listened carefully for Emma's reaction. The silence was incredible, not even penetrated by the older girl's breathe. Then, a thud and a gasp.

"No… not… no…"

Rebecca couldn't help but knit her brows, and opened one eye infinitesimally, realizing straight away that something was very wrong. Emma was curled against the open door, hands clasped tightly over her mouth, a look of sheer terror painted across her face. Rebecca could see the tears brimming on her dark eyes, and her own green eyes flew open immediately.

"Emma, it's okay! Emma, God, please don't start crying!"

The girl jumped, her terror turning to confusion, then amazement.

"Just pass me knife or something, I can get down."

Emma stood shakily, passing a switchblade on the coffee table up to her. Rebecca maintained eye-contact as she cut the rope, dropping down to the floor. She removed the harness quickly, showing Emma how it worked.

"And it evenly distributes my weight throughout the harness, so there isn't any pressure on my neck and… and Emma, please say something, it's okay… Emma, it's okay."

The blonde stared for a moment, watching the other girl with curious eyes, and it wasn't until Rebecca was looking the other way and felt a sharp sting in her cheek that she realized she'd been slapped.

"Oh, God, Rebecca…"

Before the taller girl could recover from being hit across the face, her experiment had her arms around her, engulfing her in a ferocious hug. Rebecca wasn't quite sure how to feel about this. She wasn't used to being touched, much less hugged. She was hugged about once, she thought, when she was in rehab, and Sherlock came to visit. He had pulled her into this awkward side hug, trying so hard to comfort her but not knowing how. This wasn't like that. It was… better. Emma wasn't trying to comfort her, she was comforting herself, assuring herself that her… friend wasn't dead.

Friend.

"I'm sorry, Emma," she said finally, the words feeling strange on her tongue. It was strange, this feeling of regret, she'd never really had this before. Fascinating. "I truly am. I didn't realize how affected you'd be."

"Anyone else probably wouldn't have been," she conceded, pulling away and wiping her tears, "I've only known you a week, and I'm still blubbering. God, that's sad."

"No it's not, it's human," Rebecca said quietly, and the shorter girl looked up at her, confused. It occurred to her, only then, how much smaller Emma was than her, so tiny and fragile. She could probably, almost definitely lift her off the ground with ease. She continued, more quietly, "I've shown an exceeding interest in you. I've studied you, holding you under a microscope, so to speak, and I've dissected your being. You've become much more emotionally attached to me than you would any other person, simply because I find you fascinating. We always like the people who take interest in us, it gives us a chance to self obsess, which is something people like more than anything, whether they admit it or not. No, don't deny it, it's not bad, it's nature. You are attached not really to me, but the attention I give you, and may I give you a word of advice?"

Rebecca's voice had become increasingly louder, more detached, over her monologue, and now she was watching Emma was a wolf's eyes, eyes twitching with pain and fascination combined in a morbid mixture. The blonde nodded softly, fear tinting her expression, but something else, something brighter, more of a tug to come forward than a pull away. Rebecca thinned her eyes, watching. Pupils dilated. Vein in temple throbbing. Mouth falling open. Flushing of the cheeks. Avid fascination, plain on her face.

Oh.

Oh!

_Oh!_

Emma liked crazy Rebecca, it seemed, just a little too much.

"Don't get too attached," Rebecca noted distractedly, almost to herself, "Because I get bored very easily, and one day, you'll walk in this flat and I'll send you right back out again. You'll never hear from me again. Not a text, not a call, not a murmur of my name with reach your ears. Not your fault, darling, mine. I'll figure you out, and once the puzzles finished, I won't have any use for you. So do yourself a figure, and don't get used to me company. It won't last forever."

Rebecca turned to leave, climbing out of the window, and ducked back in one last time before she disappeared for the afternoon.

"I've got to do some thinking tonight, new developments in my research, but I'll see you in the morning, yes?"

Emma nodded, and Rebecca could see shock and pain on her face as she left. Oh, well, what was it that Sherlock said? Sentiment? Yes, that was it. What a weakness it truly was.

If only she could get that look on Emma's face out of her head, then maybe she could be free of the guilt at what she'd just done. Twice.


	10. Dumb Luck

Chapter 10- Dumb Luck

Rebecca was being very quiet and very nice lately, and John couldn't be the only one to notice.

She'd gotten the groceries twice, she hadn't insulted John's height at all, and she hadn't shown up at a single crime scene to embarrass her brother in a whole week. It made him nervous. That was why, when he was sitting at the kitchen table Monday morning, he was so relieved to hear this exchange.

"Fuck you," John heard Emma spit from the other end of the phone.

"Well, no, dear, you'd have to _be _here to do that."

"Oh. You think you're so fucking clever. Let's see how clever you are after spending a day on your own, then."

"You talk big, Emma dear, but you miss me already don't you?"

"Don't give yourself too much credit, asshole. I'll see you tomorrow."

"God damn it!"

The last yell was emphasized by a mobile shattering against the kitchen door frame.

"Rebecca, that's your third phone since rehab, we may have to get you into some sort of anger management program," Sherlock said evenly, not even looking up from his microscope. You could almost taste the sarcasm and contempt in his tone, and if this was anyone but Rebecca, John would have shot him a look.

"Oh, piss off, Sherlock," Rebecca hissed, standing in the doorway, hands planted tightly on her hips. She was bouncing with excitement and energy, trying to work the excess power out of her body. John had seen Sherlock do the same thing whenever he was bored, channeling his energy into those small, sharp movements.

"If you're bored, you could clean the kitchen, it is rather messy," the detective commented, switching slides. The only answer he got was a low growl, followed by Rebecca beginning her routine of countless pull-ups on the molding of the kitchen door.

How was that not broken yet?

"There's been another murder, John. With the flowers."

John racked his brain, trying to think. Flowers… what had to do with flowers…? Ah, yes. Victims were being found, poisoned by cyanide, with a flower in their mouth. Weird, strange, sadistic.

Sherlock was incredibly excited about it.

"Any ideas yet?"

"Four."

"Care to share any?"

"Actually, two."

"Are you even listening to me?"  
"Probably more like a half of an idea."

"Bananas look like penises."

"Alright, I really don't know, but that' just because I haven't seen a body yet."

"Why do you keep a journal in your top left hand drawer? You don't use it."

"Maybe I could visualize better if… no that wouldn't work."

"Oh, look, Rebecca's thrown herself out of the window."

"Though all of them do seem to be… Oh! Yes! And the flowers! Of course!"

"It's truly spectacular the things you can ignore."

"Right, well, I don't know who did it, but I know why and how they're doing it. Also, John, No, I'm not, and yes, they do, you keep a condom in your wallet, don't you, no, she's just climbed to the roof, and yes, I am absolutely spectacular at ignoring people. Get your coat, we're leaving."

John froze, wondering how it was humanly possible to solve a crime and answer that many questions at once, then his mind froze on one phrase.

_Why do you keep a journal in your top left hand drawer? You don't use it._

_ You keep a condom in your wallet, don't you?_

"I'll have you know that that is there for emergencies only!"

"Of course it is. Now come along, John, or we're going to be late."

"If that prat doesn't stop just standing there, I'm going to pistol whip him."

Anderson giggled and Sgt. Donovan's remark and she smiled appreciatively, still looking dubiously annoyed as John, as usual, attempted to ignore their blatant hatred toward his friend. Yes, it was all well and good that they hated Sherlock, but did they have to be so incredibly vocal about it?

Though, in there defense, he was being a bit of prat today.

He'd been standing before the body for a full half hour, just staring, watching, as if he was waiting for something to move. Three different people had gone out of their way to make tell him that the body was dead- he didn't have to stare, it wouldn't run away.

John was about to become one of them if something didn't happen soon.

"It's like he's gone comatose or something. Freak. Is it you, then? Did you keep him up all night?"

John didn't have to look to see the sneer on Anderson's waxy face. Anger gripped his stomach. It was low, and it was Anderson's favorite game- Let's See If We Can Get John To Admit He's Gay For Sherlock, Vice Versa For The Latter. He was like those girls on the internet, the ones who always commented on his blog about how perfect he and Sherlock were for each other.

Apparently, they where the only two who didn't see the connection.

"Coming from a man whose wife has had him out on the couch all week," John deadpanned. Sherlock had pointed out the stress in the man's back (uncomfortable sleeping surface), as well as his oddly matted, messy hair (no time to comb it, he wanted to get out before his wife got up) when they arrived at the scene, and he'd been waiting for the perfect time to play his upper hand. The look on Anderson's face was priceless, going even more white than usual, and Donovan's jaw hit the floor.

John would have laughed, but Sherlock should have been doing that. How long was it going to take for him to regain perspective on human life? This was getting sort of dull.

"Need a bit of help, then?"

Heads turned and coffees where dropped as Rebecca approached, for more than one reason. The first, obviously, was that she was at a crime scene, which was definitely not where she should be. The second, though, the much more interesting one, was they way she was dressed.

"Is that my suit?"

"Yes, I've had it retailored, hope you don't mind."

"Not at all, it suits you."

"How punny."

The Holmes stood before the body, the entire crime scene staring in silence. Rebecca took her place beside Sherlock, brushing imaginary dust off of the suit that had once been her brothers. John watched, amazed, as she swung the slick black cane up to rest against her shoulders in the same movement that she slipped off her bowler hat, revealing freshly clipped curls. Sherlock raised a brow curiously.

"I was bored," she said in answer.

There was silence on the crime scene, then-

"Well, right, now that the Holmes have proved themselves completely useless, may I share a few theories?" Anderson was answered by silence, and, after a punctuated glare from Sherlock, the man continued, "Well, all of the victims seem to run blogs, and the murderer seems to be leaving the flowers as a signature, though it really doesn't seem too important. The most important thing is the blogs. Before they die, they've all posted the same picture of a cat. Now, that seems to be their connecting facto-"

"Absolutely brilliant."

Everyone stopped to stare, including Sherlock, at Rebecca, who was now watching Anderson with avid fascination.

"Really?" he asked, sounding incredibly shocked, as if he'd been expecting to be discredited.

"Yes, absolutely, brilliantly _stupid," _she drawled, swinging her cane down to rest at her side, "Now, if you would be so kind as to not speak in my presence, your utter incompetence is giving me a headache already. What did you say your name was?"

"A-Anderson. My name is Anderson."

"Right, well, I'll have to keep in mind not to visit any crime scenes you'll be working at, _Anderson, _if I'd like to stay out of jail. Now, some actual ideas…"

Rebecca was pacing beside the body, watching carefully.

"Sherlock, care to begin?"

"They all run blogs, correct, but it isn't a _cat _picture," he snapped, giving the still-stunned Anderson a pointed glare, "It's their real-life involvement that connects them."

"To you, of course."

"Obviously. And the flowers, they're messages."

"To who is next, yes, and it's all a part of their name. The rose mailed to Lestrade- Elizabeth Rosenthall. The dahlia in Elizabeth's mouth- Talia Mennen. The clover in Talia's-Rover Brooks. And finally, this one, a pansy. Alright, blogger, related to Sherlock Holmes in some way. Case? No. Appreciation blog? Possibly. A fanatic, a near stalker. Oh! Yes! There's the one named Pansy, isn't there? Or is it Nancy? The one that edits photos so it looks like you and John are kissing? That's- that's-"

"Pansy Smith," John blurted, blushing immediately after he said it.

The two siblings turned to John, along with the rest of the crew. John caught a glimpse of Lestrade raising an eyebrow questioningly and silently curse himself. He'd pay for this one.

"You left her blog open on my laptop," he explained, glaring at Sherlock, "Do you think there's a way we could get her to take it down?"

"So that's it, then?" the Detective Inspector asked, "Pansy Smith is the next victim."

"Not only that," Rebecca continued, "How long has this body been dead? Almost twenty four hours? If that's true, Rover was killed yesterday morning, around the same time you lot were circled around Talia Mennen's body, which means…"

"That Pansy Smith is being murdered right now."

Silence fell over the crime scene as this news sunk in. Then, the flurry began. Cops were dispatched from every car on sight, Lestrade was barking orders in every direction, and there in the middle of it all, stood John, staring in awe at his brilliant friend, Sherlock Holmes, and his kid sister, Rebecca, thinking he was the luckiest man in the world to know both of them.


	11. Implications

Chapter 11- Implications

This was very, very, very not good. He should have been much more concerned with the case, with the fact that they were too late to save Pansy Smith, that the next blogger had a name like wisteria. He should be thinking of nothing else, but it was all the farthest thing from his mind.

Sherlock paced the living room rapidly, palms pressed, raised to his lips, heels snapping with each turn. Not good. Horrible, actually, if he was using the proper wording. How could he let this happen? When did all of these little things begin to add up into something so grand, so disgusting, that he couldn't fight it any longer? There was a monster inside him, one that he had created, one that he could never be rid of, a distracting coil of painful passion, entwined with his brain cells and seeping its way through his nervous system.

And this monster was, at the moment, talking to him from the kitchen door, looking incredibly unthreatening in his raggedy jumper.

"You should really eat something, Sherlock, or have a cup of tea, or anything," John said, concern apparent on his face. God _damn _it. Why did he have to be so _fucking _nice?

"No, actually, I shouldn't," the detective snapped, spinning around again, "Because eating slows me down, as you should remember, and since we're on a case, I can't afford to be any _slower_ than I already am, so if you would please _leave, _I'd appreciate it greatly."

John wasn't affected by the venom in his friend's voice, simply shaking his head and heading back into the kitchen, preparing two cups of tea. Sherlock's frustration doubled when he saw the second mug poured, and he clenched his jaw, stopping where he was, mid-stride.

"What are you doing?"

"Making you a cup of chamomile."

"John, I can't have any _chamomile _I'll fall _asleep_ and I can't fall asleep, because I have to finish this _case, _and-"

"Sherlock, shut up. You're going to drink this cup of tea, and then you're going to sleep."

"No, I'm not, I'm-"

"Sherlock!" the detective froze at the doctor's shout, surprised. John rarely raised his voice. As he continued, his voice was steadier, but still annoyed, "Do you even have any ideas of who the killer could be?"

Sherlock refused to answer that question. Of course he had an idea of who the killer was. He had ten, in fact. Okay, five. Well, really, about one or two.

Alright, he didn't have any, but that was John's fault.

Wasn't it?

"Right, I didn't think so," the blonde continued, practically reading his flatmate's mind, "Go, upstairs. You haven't slept in a bed for almost a month, and it's about time you did."

Sherlock stared, watching John curiously. Had he, quite seriously, just told the world's only consulting detective to go to his room? Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to think, but he found himself rummaging in his drawers a moment later, looking for his sweatpants a t-shirt, stripping down to his pants. He really was rather tired. It had been almost a month since he'd had a good nights sleep, so maybe this wasn't a horrible idea.

Just as he was pulling up his sweatpants, he heard the door open, followed by the clatter of a spoon hitting the floor.

"Oh! Sorry!"

"Not a problem," Sherlock said quickly, picking up the spoon and wiping it on his pants, taking one of the mugs from his startled flatmate. John was wide eyed and seemed almost frightened. He must have gotten a rather decent view of Sherlock from behind.

Sherlock let out a huff and took a sip of tea, nearly spitting it out immediately. This was not chamomile.

"Is this that 'Sleepy Time' rubbish you're always making? With, what is it, valerian in it?"

"It'll help you sleep."

Sherlock growled low in his throat, but took another sip, walking over to his the bed. "See," he snapped, pulling back to covers, "I'm going to bed. Leave me alone."

"I'll stay as long as I like," the doctor quipped, sipping his tea, and Sherlock glowered at the quiver in his stomach. Wasn't he mad at John for something?

The detective grumbled as he sat down, with the sheets over his lap, and sipped at his tea. He nearly jumped when John sat beside him, above the sheets, of course, and choked on his tea when he felt the doctor's hand on his cheek.

"Sorry, just checking to see if you have a fever. You're almost being agreeable, are you sure you're feeling alright?"

Sherlock growled again, slinking down farther in the sheets with his tea, and John kept sitting and sipping and squirming.

"Maybe it wasn't the best idea for you to drink the 'Sleepy Time' as well, John, feeling a bit tired?" Sherlock quipped, taking another gulp of tea. The doctor glowered at him half heartedly, his eye lids already drooping. Sherlock couldn't blame him; he could already feel the knot in his chest unwinding. He'd be asleep within a fifteen minutes.

They sat like this for a while, just sipping and sitting and thinking. Sherlock's mind was completely clear except for John. He didn't think of cases or Rebecca or Mycroft or Anderson or his experiments or the homeless network. He just thought of how nice it was to sit with John, and what would happen if he rested his head on the other man's shoulder, and if he could possibly blame anything stupid he said on the tea in the morning. Probably not, better not risk it.

Resting his head, though, seemed like a very nice idea. Slowly, tentatively, the detective leaned in, resting his temple very gently on the doctor's shoulder. The man's posture changed ever so slightly, then relaxed again, and Sherlock could feel the warmth from his skin through the scratchy white wool on his cheek. Suddenly, he heard a warm sound, something like a whimper of content, and John jumped.

"Was that you?"

"What? No, of course not. Why would I ever make a sound like that?"

John just laughed, and Sherlock made another little growl, too tired and content to make a clever comment about wishful thinking. Instead, he just burrowed his face into the shoulder of John's jumper and tried not to think of what the doctor would be thinking.

To his surprise, however, he felt a warm hand tangle in his hair, and a low chuckled build in the other man's chest.

"Comfortable?" John asked, and Sherlock grunted in response, reaching out with the last of his energy to put his empty mug on the bed side table, listening to the vibrations of the doctor's voice as he said, "Good. Maybe you'll sleep through the night then."

Sherlock would have answered, but there was a warm cup of tea in his stomach and the valerian was going to his head and John smelled like after shave and biscuits and cinnamon, and he had never felt so incredibly content to just relax and sleep in his entire life.

Strange, how in that moment, he didn't even care about what it meant that he was so happy to fall asleep with his head on his friend's shoulder, fingers tangled in his hair. The exact opposite, really. He didn't care at all.

When morning came, Sherlock was incredibly aware that he was shirtless.

It wasn't as if he had anything to be embarrassed about, but it was odd to wake up with your head on a former army doctor's still sweater-clad chest, and feeling practiced fingers tracing your ribs.

"What are you doing?" he muttered, burying his face in the doctor's sweater.

John jumped, and Sherlock could practically feel him blushing.

"Sorry… You should really eat something, Sherlock. I can't be healthy for you to be this thin…"

Of course, the medical approach. Sherlock grumbled, rolling off to the side, sitting up quickly. "I'm fine, thank you very much," he snapped, "You sound like my mother."

John didn't answer, and Sherlock rubbed his face, standing quickly and snatching his shirt from the desk where he'd left it. It wasn't until he was halfway out the door that he saw John watching him, an almost hurt look in his gaze.

"What is it?" he wondered aloud, watching John carefully. His words seem to shake the doctor out of some sort of stupor, and he sat up slowly, wincing as he did.

"Nothing… it's your damn heavy head, that's what, my back is killing me," he snapped, twisting his spine, trying to work out the kinks, and Sherlock knew he was lying, but didn't say a word. John had been hurt by something he'd done and he'd seemed fine up until… oh. Oh. Well.

John had seemed fine until Sherlock had whisked himself out of the bed. Obviously, the doctor was just trying to express some concern, and he'd pushed him away. John was always upset by silly things like that.

"I'm sure you'll be fine," he lied back. John's back was going to bother him all day. Maybe he could help him with it before Lestrade came by. They had a new case coming and his blogger would be no use to him if he was groaning about his spine.

Sherlock made a mental note of this, as well as to, at some point, thank John for his concern about his partner's health. In the mean time, he swished out of the room in a curl of hair and robe, leaving behind his friend and the last night as he did so. He did, however, hold on to the smell of aftershave and biscuits and cinnamon for the rest of the day.


End file.
